


Chest Pains

by KinugoshiDofu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cute, Fluffy, Japanese Sirius, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marking, Remus is a life saver, Sirius is a gloomy bastard, Werewolf Mates, all them good things, also sex, magical top surgery gone wrong, started out dark but ended up fluffy af, trans!Regulus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KinugoshiDofu/pseuds/KinugoshiDofu
Summary: It's a comfort because this is his rightful place: besides this man who he seems to owe so much to, who seems to own so much of him. And Sirius thinks that it's fitting, that it's the werewolf who owns him, and that he owns nothing but the dirt under his nails and the shirt stained with his brother's blood.Drastic times call for drastic measures, and when it comes to the Black family it's not quite the drastic measure if it doesn't end in blood, sweat and tears.Or: of how Sirius accidentally lets go and then spends the rest of his young years trying to make up for it.
Relationships: Regulus Black/James Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 134





	Chest Pains

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to muse_in_Absentia for reading this and encouraging me to finish it!
> 
> Probably gonna put this in a collection with my other Japanese!Sirius and trans!Regulus works cuz what can I say, they live in my head now.

_kimono:_ traditional Japanese garment

_kanzashi:_ Japanese hair stick

_haori:_ kimono overcoat with straight lapels

_hakama:_ traditional Japanese skirt

_yukata:_ traditional Japanese garment (usually worn in summer)

_obi:_ sash used to fasten kimono or yukata

_jinbei:_ traditional Japanese clothing worn in summer

_kotatsu:_ low wooden table frame covered by futon

_shamisen:_ three-stringed traditional Japanese instrument

***

It all starts with the drip-drop-drip of blood on the tiled floor.

(Actually it all starts way before that, maybe when his little brother is born, but his mother names him Regina. Or later, much later, when he is forced to leave Reg behind, but upon meeting a brunette with a scarred face and a hesitant smile, he finds that maybe he doesn’t mind that much.)

The tiles are going crimson and his mother is screaming from outside the bathroom door. Regulus’ eyes are pitch black as he looks up at him, his long fingers clawing at his chest desperately. The blood pours through his grasping digits and Sirius can’t see through his tears.

“It’s okay,” he says. He doesn’t believe it himself, “it’s okay.”

He brings his hands over his little brother’s bursting skin, recites every healing chant he’s ever heard Remus use. The smaller body is shivering, knuckles gone white, and the bleeding doesn’t stop.

“Siri,” he says, and only that, eyes pools of black, wide, frightened.

Sirius shakes his head — his cheeks are wet and his hands have gone red. He feels the magic there, feels it pulse through himself and wills it into the torn flesh. The blood gushes and Regulus’ breath comes out in pants. His spine trembles, his shoulders push against the tiles and he seems to vibrate there, body spasming.

Then he goes still.

Sirius goes still too.

***

They're never still.

There's always only ever laughter between them. Regulus gives him the kanzashi their mother insists on gifting him on every occasion — despite Regulus' hair cut short and Sirius' growing down to his hips — they giggle as Sirius dresses in his smaller brother's yukata. They make a mockery of their family's ridiculous gender roles and unspoken rules they're supposed to abide by.

They do it loudly and rambunctiously, smiling all the while.

***

He sits frozen in the hallway as the healers treat him. His hands are still caked with his little brother’s blood. He looks down at them and thinks of how useless they are. They could not even hold onto what is most precious to him.

(Maybe it’s more accurate to say it starts with a snarked “you disgust me,” and although Sirius had been sure his mother had been talking about him, she had snarled “Regina” at the end of it.)

The Potters are infinitely kind about it all. They speak in soft assuring voices as they tell Sirius they are welcome there, even as he insists they can find their own place. His fists stomp into the wall harder than intended, angry at his own failure.

James looks as pale as his brand new sneakers. They don’t speak, and they both stare at the door, faces blank.

“Hey,” in the end it’s Remus that leads him to wash up, and he shouldn’t be all that surprised, “there you go.”

They fit into the bathroom together and Remus gently takes his hands underneath the faucet, scrubs at them with the last soap that comes out of the dispenser.

Sirius wants to tell him of how he’s such an amazing healer and how he should be one, professionally, and how, if Remus had been there, there wouldn’t have been all that blood. He wants to tell him how thankful he is, how soft Remus’ fingers are, how good it feels. He wants to tell him how Remus is saving his life, how he'd be dead without him.

He can’t get the words to form, however, and instead just stares at the tender cupid’s bow, the soft pink plush lips.

(Maybe it starts in second year when Remus makes him sandwiches after Quidditch practice and then after he's taken a bludger to the ribs he makes him healing salts for his bath.)

Remus helps him out of his shirt next, red stained in the white, down the columns of his chest.

They don’t speak, not as the brunette washes him gently, nothing there but the drip-drop-drip of the soiled shirt, water pouring from the faucet out against the stone sink.

***

He’s pale when they see him next, thick bandages crisscrossing his chest, his eyes drooping.

James goes in to press kisses along the side of his face and he grabs onto his hand so hard Sirius wonders if he may be intending to break it. There’s a smile lurking in the corner of his brother’s mouth, barely there, and James whispers, “I’m so happy you’re alive,” and Regulus nods, short and stuttering, and they all share the sentiment.

“It was worth it,” Regulus says, later, when it’s just the two of them.

Sirius figures it’s a sentiment too macabre for James to process, a thought so glum it would break his ever-vibrant soul — a boy as pure and untormented as James could never understand. It's too dark to pile upon Remus’ already so-dark thoughts, too, nothing but one more black spot in an inkwell. He thinks he gets it, maybe, because Sirius almost lost his little brother today, but his little brother found himself.

(He remembers the first time he's bloody knuckled and trembling, standing over the neighbourhood bully after he'd tried lifting Regulus' skirt. His little brother is crying, eyes wide and thick pearly tears streaming down his cheeks as he regards Sirius, the whimpering boy on the floor, and then Sirius' busted up hands. Regulus' feel cool where they grasp onto his own, soothing against the raw skin.

"It was worth it," Sirius whispers afterwards, after the lashing he's received from his mother, the harsh words from his father.

His brother nods, no longer crying.)

He takes his older brother’s hands and brings them down over the bandages. It feels oddly intimate, where Sirius had been pressing to stall the bleeding earlier there is only white cloth, and he imagines his hands stained again and it’s a thought that clouds his mind, nestles into the forefront of his brain so that he can’t think, can’t breathe and—

“It worked,” Regulus sounds weakened and hoarse but there’s glee in his voice.

He didn’t realise, but as his brother guides his hands over the bandages, there is the oddness of completely flat. Where Regulus’ breasts had sat before, proud and plump, is now only vast plains.

He’s never seen his brother smile so bright before.

***

They do end up at the Potter’s, not very much later, because Sirius will need his savings to buy their books for Hogwarts come September, and all in all he does not need the pressure of searching for a flat to pile onto the care of his brother.

They spend their days sitting besides Regulus’ bedside as he rests, waiting for the healers to give the okay. Some mornings he wakes up with his flesh burning, and when Sirius runs his hands over it to soothe him, he can feel his magic there, confused and upset with nowhere to go.

It’s still a special feeling, to have his magic meet his brother’s, for it to merge and wash over his skin. He imagines his hands are always just  _ stained _ , tainted with his brother’s blood. What he doesn’t know is that Regulus wishes he could keep his hands on his chest for always, the touch of his brother’s magic the only thing that makes the pain bearable.

He feels inadequate, but Regulus has never looked happier.

The first day the bandages come off, he tugs Sirius into the guest room, to stand besides him as he faces the mirror. He’s grinning so wide it must hurt, and his eyes meet his brother’s in the reflection image – he can’t help but smile, too, even as Regulus pulls his shirt up and off, showing off his flat chest for the first time.

There’s angry hissing scars there though, and he tries not to watch them but he does. He’s angry because it’s not fair that his brother had to go through that to feel comfortable and it’s not fair that he made him go through that alone and he wants to make them go away but he can’t. They are volatile pink, ragged and bruised from the backfired spell Regulus used on himself, a constant reminder of red chest, red hands and faltering breath.

Regulus sees nothing but possibilities – Sirius only sees what he almost let slip.

***

He wears their clothes now.

He sleeps in Sirius’ Crazy Sisters t-shirt and in the evening buries himself in Remus’ sweater, auburn contrasting with his pale skin, and he buttons up James’ Quidditch jacket all the way to the top, standing in front of the mirror as his palms press into his chest and he admires himself.

Sirius can’t get enough of the look on his face – it might be the first ever time he’s seen his little brother so proud in his own skin. He happily dresses in Sirius' jinbei, something he was reluctant to do before, and smiles so much his cheeks must surely hurt.

So Sirius takes him into the muggle store where he bought his first ever leather jacket and helps him find a jacket that suits him; they go for a really luxurious bomber with fur lining and then Sirius isn’t sure what’s more beautiful, the smile on Regulus’ face, or the tone of Remus’ voice as he tells Sirius how kind he thinks he is.

It’s not necessarily true, but he likes the sound of it anyway.

They spend their evenings outside, sitting in the backyard with bottles of the Dragon’s Breath wine from the cellar and talking in hushed voices. They make a fire and grill meat and potatoes and let Regulus have a glass of wine, too, just enough so that his cheeks flush a little, his eyes getting droopy.

“I thought you were in France?” after dinner Regulus lets his head fall onto Remus’ shoulder, ever grateful for his presence as James urges the brunette to spend the night.

“I was,” Remus smiles, tips his glass to meet Regulus’ in a toast.

It’s clumsy, the wine sloshing.

Remus doesn’t say it and nobody mentions it but he came back from France at 2 AM after receiving an in-distress floo-call from James, red-rimmed eyes and sniffling nose, fearing for his boyfriend’s life and maybe his best friend’s too. They don’t speak of how the mere sight of James was worrying enough, don’t speak of how he left a letter and changed and didn’t look back even as he flooed to Saint-Mungo’s.

They don’t speak of how Sirius had gone into a catatonic state and the only reason he ever got off that uncomfortable Saint-Mungo’s chair was Remus.

Saying out loud how Remus puts all their broken pieces back again, with gentle hands, soft words, comforting embraces,  _ so prettily _ would just be distasteful.

(He’s always had a way with James, who gets louder and more obnoxious in his grief, knows how to take off his glasses and use his thumbs to relax his tired eyes, knows where to rub circles into his temples to calm him down.)

It’s distasteful because even after all these years, no one is entirely sure how best to relax Remus, in turn.

(Sirius knows he enjoys being alone, but never really manages to give him that needed time, as he tends to burst into the dorm as the werewolf reads in bed, too loud and too bubbly for how down his friend must be feeling. Remus always smiles, anyway.)

Regulus yawns like a little kitten, making grabby hands at Remus' sweater to bring him into a tight hug. They hear him sigh quite loudly, content, before they part and the raven crawls up into James' lap coquettishly. Sirius watches him in a kind of dulled amusement, the amber wine staining red light onto his fingers in the dim of the candle, and it's making his skin crawl. Regulus is moving to hide his face in James' neck and for a moment he thinks of how  _ broken  _ he'd allowed his little brother to become but then his best friend meets his eye and winks and he feels sick but he smiles anyway.

They have a bit more wine and Sirius tries not to think about it, tries not to—

But it's not of much use, the night is dark and he feels cold, because he can feel the blood on his hands still.

His little brother dozes off and he watches James carry him away and there's the sight of it burned in his retina,  _ Regulus, not breathing, gone limp, and his chest is _ —

He turns into Padfoot but only because the emotions are all very basic like this, and he hears Remus calling for him but he kind of just lets it go. It's easy like this, because everything is literally just a state of letting go or holding on with his fangs and he trots off, through the bushes and then down the street and he doesn't need to know where he's going because at least he knows he'll always be able to come back.

In the end he finds his tattoo artist in Knockturn Alley, where he got ever-changing moon phases inked on his skin, and he knows it's supposed to be a scary place, but there's no judgement here, and at any rate, he's not the only wizard with blood on his hands and—

His brain shuts up when the needle first pierces his skin and then he just  _ lets it go.  _ It lingers at the back of his skull, pressed against the base, and he knows it will fester there until it breaks and seeps back into the foreground, but for now it's just a small desolate thought and it doesn't rule him.

Remus is still awake when he comes back, because that's just something the brunette does. He waits up and maybe he is like those gloomy wizards in that way too, because he's also pretty sure Remus doesn't judge,  _ has blood on his hands _ .

Which is stupid, because Remus is nothing short of  _ perfect _ , and he is probably the only person with any right to judge, at any rate.

He doesn't ask, either, just pets Padfoot's head and then nestles up next to him on the carpet.

It's a comfort because this is his rightful place: besides this man who he seems to owe so much to, who seems to  _ own  _ so much of him. And Sirius thinks that it's fitting, that it's the werewolf who owns him, and that he owns nothing but the dirt under his nails and the shirt stained with his brother's blood.

***

They go to the beach on one of the last days of summer — their trunks left as half-packed messes in Godric's Hollow, their purchased books still in their parchment wrappers — and the sun shines brighter than Sirius imagines it ever has, but Regulus' smile shines brighter still.

The heat beats down on them as they stretch out their towels, flop down in a pile of sweaty limbs and laughter, and Sirius' fingers are itching. He flexes them, does it often now, as if he can scratch the sin out from under the surface, ease it out through his skin.

James and Remus have stripped off their shirts and trousers in record time, cajoling the Black brothers to follow them as they race towards the coast line. The younger sibling's smile has gone slightly tense as his eyes travel through the handful of people gathered at the shore.

He doesn't have to say it aloud — Sirius already knows.

So he makes sure he's in his baby brother's line of sight when he takes his shirt off — the thin lines of ink on his chest have healed well, the skin no longer tender — showing off his new tattoo for the very first time.

Regulus stares. Reaches out his fingers, brings the soft pads of them down over the ink. They don't move, like the moon cycles on his chest or the kanji on his back. They feel at home under his brother's fingers, and he watches as Regulus bunches up his own t-shirt in awe.

He touches the scars on his chest as he touches the twin marks on Sirius' — black ink dotted in perfectly to replicate the scars Regulus' failed spell have left behind, a reminder of what had happened,  _ forever _ .

For Sirius it had been meant as a reminder of his own failures —  _ always strive to be better _ , because  _ now is not good enough _ . He can tell, by the fire that lights up his brother's eyes as his fingers trace the similar patterns on his own chest, however, that this is something else entirely.

And as he watches Regulus take off his shirt, all signs of embarrassment and discomfort gone, he thinks that that's okay, too.

He lets his younger brother cuddle into his side as they wade into the water, allows him to hug into him later, while they lay sunning on the sand. Regulus takes his hands, the comfort of their magic meeting drawing a sigh from his lips, and every ounce of him screams gratitude.

The sun is high in the sky, but nothing is brighter than his brother's smile.

***

September rolls in hot and humid and Sirius still scrubs his hands diligently every morning but he sleeps better, kind of. He sees Regulus thrive, proud of his new school shirts and his flat chest and he tries to catalogue these little moments away but somehow at night, all he can remember is his tender frame shaking, blood gushing, his fingers warm and sticky and the air thick with the smell of copper and—

He wakes up in a sweat.

He doesn't remember falling asleep in the first place, but Remus is besides him in mere moments, yawning into his fist as he stumbles over in his sleep shirt. The brunette doesn't speak, just smiles this tight little smile with his eyes still mostly closed, and he rubs these comforting little patterns into Sirius' shoulder as he crawls onto the bed.

It's obscene how comfortable  _ this  _ is.

Because they spend many nights together like this, too, after full moons, after parties, their bodies warm besides each other, Remus' fingers tracing the folds of his shirt, pushing into where Sirius' shoulders ache. The rhythm of it is as therapeutic for Sirius as it is for the brunette — on nights when he's torn open his own skin, clawed at his stomach, gnawed at his arms, he lays, battered and broken, face hidden in Sirius’ shoulder as his fingers seek out the softness of his friend's flesh.

The familiar scent and warmth of Remus calms him more than he cares to admit — the pounding in his ears simmers down and he inhales deeply, to the scent of Applewood and lemongrass, something earthy and tangy and when he exhales again all the tenseness seeps from his body.

He can't think of anything besides the lull of Remus' breath against his side, of how the scent of his friend will stain the pillow — tomorrow night he will be carried off with the scent in his nose still, and it will be an eventless night, nothing as soothing as the camaraderie of the brunette by his side.

He tries not feeling guilty as his hands find Remus' sides and he tucks himself tighter into the body besides him. He tries not to, but it feels so good.

In the morning he wakes up to a mostly empty dorm, the blinds of his bed thrown wide open to let in some sun. He buries his face in his pillow, can still feel the heat of where Remus' body had been resting, earlier, as he brings a hand down on the empty sheets besides him.

He doesn't even notice his brother until he's dozed off and awoken again, Regulus seated on his best friend's bed. He's wearing one of James' shirt, his books and parchment spread across the older boy's bed as he finishes up on his homework — James usually prefers to ban all study from the dorm, but as usual, he is powerless to deny his boyfriend anything.

Sirius wants to roll his eyes at the mere thought — however, it is sweet, and he cannot deny that he loves seeing his little brother so happy.

Admittedly, he likes him a whole lot less when Regulus eyes him from across the room, before humming, "well? Why don't you tell Remus you love him?"

He knows that in the face of his brother there is no use denying it — as if Regulus does not know  _ all of him _ .

(He's a good liar too, doesn't bat an eye as he faces his mother when she yells at him. He takes it, lets her howl about how the kanzashi she gave him were worth more than his life. He smiles, apologetic, eyes molten black as he lies through his teeth, "I'm sorry mother, I must have misplaced them."

They take the heirloom — a golden kanzashi with the family crest — to Diagon alley next day and use some of the money to buy Regulus proper boy jeans and set most of it aside for later and they laugh about it, cheeky.

There isn't a better liar in this world than his brother. It shouldn't make him proud, but he is, because he also knows Regulus would never lie to him.)

He closes his eyes, lets the scent of Applewood fill his senses as his fingers twitch, and he thinks of how he almost lost Regulus — not  _ lost _ ,  _ let go —  _ and then of Remus and—

"I failed you. I would only fail him," he says it matter-of-factly, no room for argument, lips tight.

There's a sombre look on Regulus' face, but he tries not to think of what it means.

***

If Sirius Black was perhaps a teenager with a more standard, less angsty upbringing, things would have, arguably, been getting a lot better.

Arguably, because Sirius Black is  _ not _ a teenager with a standard, less angsty upbringing, and from where he's sitting, things get a lot worse.

The sun sets sooner, the nights get darker, the weather colder. Remus takes his hands when they trek into Hogsmeade and it rains, and it's warm where his palms are pressing into where the brunette hides them beneath his own cloak and  _ oh no _ .

He sits with Regulus in the greenhouse, hiding from professor Sprout after stealing Flutterby bush so Remus can plant it in one of the garden pots he keeps on the dorm's windowsills. His little brother is panting, face pink with exertion and he has this kind of look on his face that is unreadable, exasperated, tender, and  _ oh no _ .

Moony get moody, too, in a quiet and gloomy way, and he sits in front of the fire with a book and a face that says  _ do not disturb  _ and no one does, not really, but Sirius joins him in front of the fire long after everyone's gone up to bed already and he sits a proper ways away and is just  _ there  _ to show his comradery and  _ oh no _ .

It's a whole array of countless little things,  _ tiny things _ , like Remus smiling up at him in class, and Remus handing him his quill after he's dropped it and the molten embers in his eyes, yellow in the light, dark and smouldering in the evening and he is futile to resist, kind of wades into it, drowns in it and—

_ and he's in love _ .

It's a catastrophe, as far as catastrophes go, because he wakes up in the morning and scrubs at his hands and in the evening he dreams of Regulus' chest trapped underneath his fingers and he wakes up, silently screaming and then gets aptly distracted by strong hands on his shoulders and—

And during the full moon he follows Moony, scents him from miles away, they play and trot and life is _this_ , only this, only them, and it's simple and so damn _obvious_. There is comfort in Moony's smell, Applewood, and something nutty and Padfoot could find it everywhere, it sets his whole _core on fire_ it is _home_. Emotions are basic like this, much easier to comprehend, the _want_ seeps so thick into Padfoot's fur that he howls at the full moon and means it.

It is frightening. Because Sirius is inept at holding on.

It gets worse. Remus is always just this side of tender after a full moon, and he takes a long bath with healing salts and the Marauders stockpile chocolate by his bedside and it's agony, watching him from across the room as he goes through the motions. Small, calculated, careful as he changes into his pyjama, smile wry as James jokes and pulls back his duvet for him. Early morning sun pours in through the windows of the dorm and Peter yawns so deeply his jaw cracks and they get into their own four posters, exhausted from their escapades, contented.

And Sirius has to watch as the brunette makes a painful face, grimaces as he sits himself down, body sore and then when he realises he's being watched, Remus' eyes turn on him. He is so  _ weak _ , it disgusts him, because Remus doesn't even  _ ask _ , he just very plainly exists in this space and it magnetises him, draws him in.

He fits behind Remus just fine, helps him settle his pillow comfortably, brings shaking fingers down his pinkened arms and offers a soothing touch. His friend sighs quite audibly, and it's contentment, safety, all those good things.

It's ridiculous — he wakes up with his hand pressed into Remus' chest and he sees his fingers coated in red and for a moment he thinks he cannot breathe,  _ he can't let go _ .

(He will never admit it scares him. Love is a lot of different emotions, it weaves its way into anger at any bully that dares give Regulus an odd look, creeps into the cracks of worry he feels when he can't find his little brother in the Great Hall for lunch, breaks his facade of sorrow as he reads the letter their parents sent to let them know they are now formally disowned. It is many a little things rolled into this one big thing, but mostly it is his own inability at holding on to what he holds most dear, and it is the fact that this always seems to cost him.)

So he does something that seems quite reasonable in the moment itself, something funny and light and breezy, something to clear the mood and clear the air, something to laugh about later.

It's absolutely not funny, and it's only because James knows, better than anyone, how absolutely  _ daft  _ he is, that nobody gets hurt.

(Sirius is bitter, and he thinks this should be something to be proud of — after all, his best friend so longs to be a hero, yet finds himself coming up short in their group of misfits. It's a hurtful thought, but it distracts from all the other hurtful thoughts, even if just for a mere moment.)

Remus is rightfully livid, spends a day in the infirmary after being forced to go through a transformation all by himself, and then just  _ broods  _ for a while.

It's not the best idea to hide up in the dorm, but Sirius is apparently all out of good ideas, and it's quiet there with everyone off to class. He skips Transfiguration and then decides to skip Potions too, because his head is kind of all over the place now.

He sits on the windowsill and watches out over the lake. The Flutterby bush smells like Applewood now, the scent comforting in the rainy afternoon. The soft  _ drip drop  _ sound of the rain on the roof panes is enough of a distraction, quieting Sirius' racing mind. He doesn't look at his fingers, but as he inhales the scent of rain on pine trees and thinks of fresh apples, he imagines, for the first time in months, that maybe his digits are not the only ones stained.

The moment passes with the loud bang of the dormitory door slamming into the wall. Sirius doesn't have to turn — the scent of Applewood mixes with dark, with the copper of blood from Remus' previously torn skin, hiding under his fingernails — but he does anyway because if there is one thing he has learned, it is that it is best to  _ never  _ turn your back on a livid wolf.

Remus looks  _ okay _ , all things considering. His face is a little flushed, and his fists are balled at his sides in anger. He has bags under his eyes, and he seems to favour his left side, but Sirius strongly doubts that his friend would very much appreciate his pity in a moment like this.

" _ What the fuck _ ," the brunette very eloquently seethes — and then, "I fucking  _ love you  _ why  _ the fuck  _ would you  _ do that?! _ "

All things considering, this is not anywhere near what Sirius expected. Emotions are difficult, sure, and there are many ways to love — many more than this deep, mind-shattering, earthquaking way that Sirius feels for the werewolf — but none of them seem very plausible in the current situation. Remus' eyes are set on  _ murder _ , not  _ let's platonically hug this out _ .

It doesn't very much matter, either way, Sirius thinks the conclusion is still the same.

"I'm not good for you Remus," he says, and he thinks he means it, too.

(Because he is loud, and he steals sandwiches, and he holds Remus' hands too tight. He laughs, obnoxious, lies, often, cries, with ugly sobs racking his frame.  _ He lets go _ , even when he tries to hold on.)

They don't say anything else for a moment. Sirius watches as his friend's cheeks darken, the pink staining all the way to the tips of his ears. He's not sure if he's blushing or if it's anger because he so rarely gets to see the brunette angry.

Remus takes the couple of strides it takes to bridge the distance between them. He's relatively sure he's about to be sucker-punched and he's also relatively sure he deserves it, so his doesn't run, just comes down off the windowsill so he can meet Remus head-on.

They're so close he can feel the warmth emitted from the brunette's strong frame. He is all angry muscles, tense with his rage, and his knuckles have gone white from gripping so hard.

" _ Who the fuck _ ," Remus hisses, right in his face, looking up at him with such vivacity Sirius remembers for a moment what it feels like to be scared, "are  _ you  _ to decide what's good for me? _ " _

There’s a breath, a small moment of clarity. Remus’ eyes have gone all the way black, warm embers gone even in the midday sun. Before he can allow himself to sink into them, Remus has already grasped his shoulders, pulling him into a kiss.

It's perhaps not the most romantic of first kisses, as far as first kisses go. Remus is still pretty pissed off, made very obvious by his sharp teeth biting down into Sirius' bottom lip, and his grip on his shoulders errs just this side of painful. But it's hypnotic, just the right kind of desperate, and Sirius kisses back with just as much fervor, biting at his best friend's plump mouth.

Everything is a bit blurry, because Sirius' brain is pretty bad at processing emotions in general, and this is somehow the epitome of all of that. His heart stutters, flutters, sings in his ribcage when the brunette's fingers push their way into his shirt. The tips are warm, skitting over his sides and he thinks he might be flying, heady with the taste of Remus on his lips and his mouth, hot where it presses kisses into his neck.

They manoeuvre to the bed, which is the only sensible thing to do. Sirius doesn't register it as sensible, he just follows the guidance he gets given, Remus' hands persistent as they push him down onto his own duvet. He struggles to get up on the bed and watches as the werewolf uses his wand to close and seal the drapes, before putting it away on the bedside table besides the lit lamp.

His eyes are feral. Sirius would be scared, but this is Remus Lupin, he has seen him battered and broken, flesh torn and turned, and there is nothing in the endless darkness of the wolf's soul that scares him anymore.

He fumbles to open the drawer of his nightstand while Remus continues to just stare at him. They don't speak, but he tosses the bottle of lube to the brunette and then very decisively turns onto his stomach.

It takes a moment for his friend to react, but there's no time to doubt himself. He can smell Applewood on his own skin and the air is electric. It crackles with Remus' magic and with the want that is pooling near his belly button and he thinks he might explode, his heart escaping his ribcage.

Then Remus' touch returns, pressing into his spine, crawling under his dress shirt. The other hand fumbles with his belt and he feels the nip of the brunette's canines at the joint of his shoulder and neck.

His fingers are warm, demanding against his hip and then persistent in his body. He hides his face in his pillow, flustered, but it's only worse because his whole bed still reeks of Remus from where he had come to comfort Sirius only two days ago. There's no way to escape the man now, solid all along his back and teeth set to his neck and he doesn't think he wants to.

There's the sound of Remus' belt and his hands return to Sirius' narrow hips now, a sweet comforting touch there, setting his skin on fire. He thinks he wants to cry, and then he sobs and whines and bites

down into the pillow because this is it and it's relief but also torture he feels so warm he thinks he might melt.

Remus makes this sound, animalistic and deep in the back of his throat, and then he's pulling at the raven hair, yanking his head back.

"I want to hear you," it's just a grunt pressed into the side of his throat, but Sirius feels his mouth hover there, feels the hot breath pressing into his pulse.

He's not one to feel embarrassment, but he sounds so desperate to his own ears that it's a little unbecoming. Remus is precise, persistent in his ownership, drives in and out in a way that has the raven chanting his name.

He doesn't bite down, his teeth constantly hovering over where Sirius wants them most — etched into his skin, piercing deep,  _ owning  _ him.

And he's pretty sure he begs for it too, wanton and hoarse, " _ please please please _ ," but it's to no avail because even like this, Remus is nothing if not immaculately in-control. He gets fucked into a quivering mess, until he's raw with emotion and putty in Remus' hands, until he bursts at the seams, comes undone, endless ropes across the duvet.

Afterwards Remus takes his time undressing him properly, throwing his shirt and jeans to the foot of the bed before taking off his own outer robes. His hair is matted to his forehead and his cheeks are ablaze, mouth bitten and red from Sirius' kisses.

It's a sight Sirius wants to bury deep inside of himself, something to hold onto in the deepest dark of the night. The shine of sweat on his tan body, his flaccid cock and strong thighs, and the musky scent of his orgasm. He gets tucked in underneath the blankets and then Remus joins him there too, comfortably fitting in behind him, warm hands finding their way to his chest.

He tries to calm his breath, but Remus has his hands caressing over the inked moon cycles, his lips pressing gentle kisses to where his teeth had nipped at his neck.

They nap and fuck again and then nap again and there’s nothing Sirius can do except work hard to match up to the fire that seems to burn endlessly in Remus’ core. Remus holds his neck between his canines, nips on the flesh just strong enough to sting, but he doesn’t bite down, doesn’t  _ mark _ him as his own, even when Sirius begs him to. He is still angry, still feels betrayed, and they fuck until nothing of that is left, until it’s just  _ this _ , until it’s diluted down to this most basic of their emotions, until there is no doubt, not even a fraction, that Sirius owns as much of Remus as he does of him, that they own nothing but each other and the blood under their nails and that Sirius will never be able to let go —  _ even if he’d want to _ .

He doesn’t want to, but that’s besides the point.

***

They sit in the protective comfort of Sirius’ four-poster with sweets from his secret stash and Remus is subdued now, mellow with how good he feels, a lazy smile on his face as he watches Sirius fumble with the package of Bery Bott’s, his lips plump and pink.

It’s intimate with how nude they are, and Sirius’ nails have left red welts in the tan hips of his friend, and he’s pretty sure he has a hickey pressed above every inked moon spanning over his chest and collar bones. It’s  _ good _ though, and Sirius’ mind is not going one thousand miles an hour, he’s not  _ overwhelmed _ , instead just at ease, soft blankets under his legs, Remus’ hand on his knee.

They don’t really talk, just eat their sweets and Sirius has this inkling of a thought that the brunette is letting his fingers do the talking, gentle patterns rubbing into his thigh and now up his arm.

The digits linger over the teeth marks left in Sirius’ neck, not deep enough to pierce skin, but still visible to the naked eye. The brunette’s look turns pensive as he runs the tip of his index finger over the dented skin. His eyes are no longer pitch black, when they meet Sirius’, they spark with golden flecks.

“Are you sure?”

His voice is still gruff, exhaustion colouring it. His cheeks are pink, the bags under his eyes sallow. But he looks content in this light, yellow from the lamp on the bedside table. Sirius has to think, not for the answer, but to make sure he understands the context.

He is comforted because this is his rightful place: besides this man that he owes so much to, who owns  _ so much _ of him. And Sirius thinks it’s fitting, that it’s the werewolf who owns him, and that he owns nothing but the werewolf’s scent lingering in his nose and his own body stained with his marks.

“I am,” he says, no hesitation. He is firm as he says it too, because he’s not usually very sure of many things, but he  _ knows _ what he wants from Remus.

He wants a way to hold on forever.

(It’s a good thing werewolves mate for life.)

Remus regards him quietly for a few more moments. His eyes trail to his face, seemingly scanning it for any uncertainty. Then, a tender smile takes over his own, and they meet in a much gentler kiss, sweet with the sugar they’ve been eating.

Next, he presses his nose bellow Sirius’ ear, tickling him. He’s put his hair up in a silver kanzashi, but Remus nuzzles into a couple of desolate locks, inhaling his scent deeply. His fingers are drifting down to his sides now, gently holding his ribs where they burst to let his fleeing heart escape earlier.

He tongues into the indents of his teeth first, breathes a breath there that causes Sirius’ whole  _ soul _ to quiver. When he bares his canines he snarls, a noise that goes straight to the pit of Sirius’ stomach, causes a dark stir there and hitches his breath.

There is no way to aptly explain what it feels like when Remus’ teeth break his flesh. He thinks of what Regulus had looked like, pale face on the pale floor, hands staining red, gasping, lips pink, eyes wild. He thinks of how his magic had felt, clashing with his little brother’s, fighting in his chest. He thinks of how all the hairs on the back of his neck had stood to attention as he tried to patch back the broken skin, how his flesh had felt. He thinks of how it feels now, still confused, his hands itchy and his magic restless.

It hurts, searing, for maybe just a fraction of a moment. Before the pain properly registers, Remus is lapping at the spilt blood and his saliva soothes over the mark, exchanging the sharp puncture with his sweet scent. Remus’ magic fills him in waves, each one wrecking shudders through his body — the brunette’s grip on his chest strengthens, keeping him upright as he continues to clean the wound.

Words fall short, it’s like a sea crashing into him, the feeling punching a hole through his gut and leaving him restless. He can barely register the gentle swipes of Remus’ tongue, the skin tender to the touch but the magic brushing over it, tingling and crackling.

The skin heals back with his mate’s saliva, but even after Remus has pulled back, his magic lingers now, running around his nerves in the way they do as dog and wolf, playful, vibrant,  _ alive _ .

***

Some nights he still wakes up, and some moments he gets overwhelmed and withdraws into the safety of his own mind and when he hugs Regulus he still gets to feel the confusion of their magic clashing, the comfort of it meeting with the way his brother sighs gratefully. He thinks less of his own fingers stained with blood and more of his fingers interlocked with Remus’. His little brother smiles, all the time.

Over the winter holidays they travel back to Godric’s Hollow so that Sirius can go apartment browsing. Regulus reads the map and holds it the wrong way, and they’re pretty crap at taking public transport — mostly because Regulus isn’t actually used to it and makes loud remarks about how weird the muggle money looks — but they find an apartment in a neighbourhood with many young witchards.

They have to climb a lot of stairs but Regulus’ teeth are bared in a grin by the time they make it to the top floor. The flat is by no means big, but it has two bedrooms and one shared space with enough room for a small kitchen, a comfortable couch, and a work table. There’s big windows and the whole place floods in light, so Sirius gets to listen to his brother rave about the endless possibilities; growing nightshade on the balcony, hanging moon lilies by the doorframe, how they can transform the corner into a comfortable nook with their books, and how they can get themselves a kotatsu for the middle of the room so they can drink tea there in winter.

Regulus falls in love with the place, and Sirius so does love an in-love Regulus. The younger Black sees none of the imperfections, only sees the possibilities, and they are  _ endless _ . Sirius admires this about his little brother most of all — his faith that all will be well, as long as he has his brother by his side.

He hugs into his side, puts his head on his shoulder and lets out a deep sigh. They stand together in front of the big window and Sirius studies their reflection. Regulus makes this flat into a home, and he would have it no other way.

They get to move most of their stuff in right away, and Regulus busies himself with hanging all his clothes out in his bedroom, throwing his old Hogwarts uniform in the fire with a crinkle of his nose. Sirius finds him walking around topless most times, the fire lit to make the flat just slightly too warm so that he can parade his flat chest comfortably.

The first night they sleep together in the shared space with a heap of blankets and piping hot green tea and Regulus reads him an old Japanese story of a beautiful shamisen player. The next day they find a Christmas tree and have Remus and James over to decorate it, and over the course of the next week he lives in awe of all the work his little brother gets done.

Regulus enlists Remus to help him plant a plethora of different herbs and ingredients on the small balcony, and he persuades James to help Sirius repaint the bathroom, where there’s cracks in the walls. He finds an old bathtub with golden lion’s feet in a second-hand shop and it is a perfect mockery of all they’ve left behind so Sirius has Prongs help him move it in and fix the plumbing. They spend a lot of time on their knees with their foreheads sweaty and their noses in books as they look for the right spells to make the bathroom liveable.

By the time Christmas rolls in the flat is as cosy as it gets, with lots of plants and soft seats and the Christmas lights illuminating in the windows. They have the Marauders over and spend the afternoon trying to prepare a feast until Remus thankfully comes to their aid with his mother’s special roast wrapped in tin foil to be reheated and her recipe for baked sweet potatoes.

Peter brings a chocolate cake and James comes laden with gifts. They huddle together under the kotatsu, pressed tightly together as they sing Christmas songs and drink Firewhiskey that burns on the way down. Regulus drinks from the wine his boyfriend brought, and when the drink stains down his shirt it doesn’t send Sirius into a self-loathing spiral — he jokes and gets his brother to the bathroom and helps him clean up, tossing the reddened shirt into the hamper without a second thought.

His chest is bare, his scars are ragged and healing, but he is  _ safe _ . Sirius doesn’t want much more for him; at least he doesn’t think so, until later in the evening, after another drink, he notices the look his best friend keeps throwing his brother and there’s a fondness that kind of creeps upon him. Maybe he does want more for his little brother than just safety.

That night he takes Remus to bed with insistent hands against the brunette’s back. The young man stifles a yawn in his fist but goes willingly, allowing Sirius to undress him gently and then kissing his mouth tenderly. They’re too sleepy for anything more, but Remus is warm pressed all along his back, and then in the morning he gets awakened in much the same way, his friend heavy against his body and the werewolf’s lips pressing lingering kisses against the side of his neck, tonguing into his mate’s mark.

They make love with the blinds thrown open, early winter sun setting the room alight.

Afterwards, he lets Remus bathe him in sweet adoring touches, as he so often is too impatient to allow. He watches the brunette’s tan digits draw patterns over his inked chest, following the moon cycle with a curious index finger. He watches, demure, as Remus presses gentle kisses to the bitemarks he’s left all over his neck and thighs, and then, almost dazed, as the brunette hides his naked flesh under one of Sirius’ yukata to go make him tea.

He comes back to bed with a steaming cup of ginger tea and more soft kisses. He murmurs kind adorations, tells Sirius how good he did, how proud he is of him. Sirius feels his cheeks blush pink but for once, he is content not saying a thing. He allows himself to bask in the moment, of warm ginger down his throat and Remus’ warm hands against his hips.

Sirius feels safe, and secure, and sure that Remus will not let him let go. He thinks, maybe he wants more for himself than just safety, too.

***

Months blur together. He watches Regulus change his hairstyle half a dozen times, watches the progression of his healing as his little brother sneaks him into the prefect’s bathroom, watches his confidence grow with every day.

He starts wearing James’ Quidditch jacket on weekends, boldly holds his hand in hallways, kisses his lips in front of swooning seventh years. Remus makes him an ointment with murtlap essence and a handful of other ingredients and he asks Sirius to massage it into his scars diligently every day. The marks grow less angry first, flatten out with the rest of the skin, and then less red. They still stand out, but they look less of a mess, less like they belong to the unhappy, undulating, frantic fifteen year old and more like this happy and confident young man that Regulus is growing into.

Every now and then he lets his hands linger when he’s rubbing in the salve. He finds Regulus’ magic more settled every time — it’s still there, teetering and stuck just below his skin, but it is no longer restless, no longer upset. His brother’s eyes pool shiny ink, content with the touch. They don’t say anything, they just smile.

It gets better.

He goes from restless sleep and restless thoughts to settled nights and settled thoughts. Sometimes he still thinks of how his brother had felt, slipping away beneath his fingers. But he can feel Regulus, vibrant and alive, underneath his digits daily. He is still here, Remus tells him sternly, and then Sirius starts telling himself that too.

His mind wanders and he says, “you still have him,” and when he washes his hands for a minute everything is red tiles and he goes, “he is still here,” and on the odd occasion that he does scare awake at night, he has Remus’ warm body resting besides him, dark lashes fluttering as he opens his eyes sleepily, and before the brunette can speak, Sirius tells himself seriously, “Regulus is  _ happy _ ,” and flops back down on the bed.

He doesn’t see Remus’ smile — he doesn’t have to, feels it pressed into his cheek instead.

It takes hard work, and it’s exhausting, but he doesn’t let up. Sometimes he’s too tired to convince his mind otherwise, but that’s okay too. Somedays he still fears the unspoken and he spends the day in bed as Padfoot instead, emotions dumbed down to just an inexplicit sadness, and he whines and nestles into his duvet.

And then it passes.

He gets a bunch more tattoos, too, runes down his arm and a daruma doll with the one eye filled in, and he watches himself in the mirror. Maybe he does not necessarily grow, but he washes his face and resists the urge to scrub at his hands until they’re red. He looks himself in the eye, and he watches his skin return to a healthier colour, the bags beneath his eyes slowly but surely disappearing.

He’s not entirely sure yet if it’s okay to hold Remus’ hand in public, but he kisses him in the safety of the dorm and during quick bathroom breaks and it kind of transforms into something more quite naturally.

After they win the Quidditch cup, he finds the brunette at the afterparty in the dorm and then snogs him right in front of everyone until neither of them can catch their breath. He’s not worried about it — Remus is grinning ear to ear, his hands finding the back pockets of Sirius’ jeans and squeezing there and he thinks  _ this is it _ .

It’s not scary anymore.

Because this is his rightful place: besides this man who he owes his life to, who he owes his happiness to. And Sirius thinks that it’s fitting, that it’s the werewolf who owns him, and that he owns nothing but the smile on his face and his mate’s mark on his shoulder.

***

It’s a warm day in late may, and the whole flat smells like flowers and sweetness. Regulus is on special leave from his last year at Hogwarts for the occasion and comes to cuddle him from behind, the hour still early.

They make breakfast together, scrambled eggs and bacon strips and green tea, and then eat seated next to each other on the sofa. At around eight Regulus goes to get dressed, leaving Sirius in his pyjamas to stare out of the windows, the city awakening.

“I have to go or I might be late,” Regulus tuts in front of the mirror in the shared space, beckoning his brother over to fix the obi.

He is wearing a traditional kimono today, one not unlike the one their father used to wear on special occasions, a darker green colour with silver patterns woven in the fabric. His haori atop it is the same green colour, with dark green linings. Sirius can’t take his eyes off his little brother, so comfortable in his own skin now, smiling at him in the mirror as he fixes his hair. He looks handsome and happy and Sirius can’t resist the urge to ruffle his hair — much to Reg’s loud protests — and take him into a tight hug.

The younger man sticks out his tongue childishly at his brother before leaving, passing James on his way out of the flat. The raven whistles sharply at the sight of his boyfriend and presses a quick peck to his lips before waving at his friend, proudly holding up the clothing bag he’s brought.

Sirius jumps into the shower while James lays out everything they need on the bed and then barges in yelling about how Regulus had made him promise he’d wash the older brother’s hair for him so that the right amount of conditioner would be used.

It’s very much of a mess, with James accidentally spraying himself and Sirius calling him a pervert more than once, but they get the deed done with so much giggling that their stomachs are hurting.

Getting dressed is a precious moment that he silently tucks away in the back of his mind for later — in all their years of friendship, tender moments are few and far between, despite their absolute devotion for one another — and he can see the seriousness set into his best friend’s brow. He cannot imagine how often his little brother must have forced his boyfriend to practice this routine.

As it is, James dresses him with diligent hands. The plain white underclothes go first, and then he very carefully unpacks the black and golden hakama with golden embroidery, and the short crimson kimono and haori. He lays out the clothing as not to wrinkle them, and helps his friend into the kimono first. He folds the neckline as Regulus had instructed — left over right with ribbons of the black ink on the pale chest peeking out — and tucks the fabric tightly before securing a sash to keep the kimono in place.

Then comes the hakama, and James takes his time folding it firmly over the kimono before starting to work on the obi. He has to redo it once, as Regulus had insisted that he would try and try again until he could fold the perfect knot to rest over Sirius’ stomach — he almost pities his friend, but James is as stubborn as ever, working hard to create the perfect tie that would make his boyfriend proud.

Last, he fastens the golden decorative chains that Regulus has bought especially for the occasion around the obi, before nervously giving his friend a little nod and taking him out into the shared space to look at his mirror image.

The moment stretches gently into the next as James helps him put up his hair with a golden kanzashi, and then they are grinning and James is joking how he looks good enough to eat and intimacy gives way to something more playful.

He admires himself in the mirror while his friend changes into his three-piece suit in the bedroom, scrutinizing James’ handiwork. His childhood is filled with fond memories of dressing into formalwear with his younger brother, and it feels not unlike something of an honour that he has shared this with James now, too, someone who has been besides him for years, not very different from his brother but by blood.

They take a car to the rented cabin a ways away from the city where they can party the night away and sleep underneath the stars with the scent of pines and flowers. He feels silly for feeling fluttery, but his hands are fumbling with the fabric of his hakama and he cannot keep them still.

James grins at him. He repeats to himself, “he’s okay, he is safe, he is holding on,” and by now it’s become a mantra without much meaning, something he says just to comfort himself. His fingers are not stained red, when he closes his eyes he sees his brother smile at him in the mirror, hands flattening over his kimono with pride.

The woods smell sweet today, clean and fresh. He can hear the people murmuring in the yard, and James disappears only momentarily to shout through the front door, “we’re here!” and then he’s back by his side.

He walks Sirius out to the backyard by the side of the house with his hands clasped tightly over his eyes — Regulus has been adamant that they must not see each other before the moment is right — and it’s a welcome distraction. His senses hone in on the scent of the flowers, but as James leads him on, he gets flooded with Applewood and something earthy and it’s so undeniably  _ Remus _ that he thinks his heart might skip a beat.

The gentle murmur of the guests quiets down — after a couple of  _ ooh _ s and  _ aah _ s — and Sirius realises they must be close now, because the scent is heady here, so much so he thinks he might drown in it and—

When James releases him his eyes fly open and immediately find the pool of golden that are Remus’. He is fully dressed in a dinner suit, a black double-breasted tailcoat with satin lapels, with a crimson dress shirt and bow tie. His waistcoat is crimson as well, and Regulus has hung golden chains there similar to the ones James has so diligently wrapped around Sirius’ waist atop his obi.

His hair is every shade from chestnut to honey brown and Sirius kind of wants to cry a bit because he’s smiling, canines bared, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been happier than in this one desolate moment.

Besides him, Regulus looks infinitely proud and his cheeks are dimpled with the grin overtaking his face. The moment is picture perfect and Sirius has to kind of just  _ be _ there for a moment so that he can take it all in — Remus’ gentle eyes studying his own, how strong he looks in his suit, the scent of his mate spiked with his excitement, and the happiness on his brother’s face and the warmth of his best friend besides him.

For a moment he thinks maybe he can’t breathe and it’s just a flash somewhere in the back of his mind —  _ pale face pale tiles red fingers _ — and his chest kind of constricts with it too but then Remus is taking purposeful steps towards him and he imagines his chest breaks open and his heart flies free, out to meet the werewolf’s.

He has to force himself not to run to meet Remus halfway, but they do eventually meet, on the white carpet that has been laid out to lead them to the grand wedding arch decorated with red and pink and white flowers.

Unable to stop himself then, he leans into the brunette’s body and tips his head to meet his pink lips for a kiss. He thinks people might be laughing but he doesn’t care, he lets himself drown into the embrace and lets Remus take his hands and  _ knows _ he will never let go again.

And it’s a comfort because this is his rightful place: besides this man who he owes everything to, who now owns his heart so fully too. And Sirius thinks that it’s fitting, that it’s the werewolf who owns him so wholly, and that he owns nothing but the kimono on his back and the werewolf’s heart in return.

**Author's Note:**

> This started out pretty gloomy but halfway through writing I was thinking of how it'd be pretty funny if the spell Regulus had used was "boobus deletus" and then I couldn't quite take it seriously.
> 
> That being said: top surgery should be more accessible for all peeps. JK Rowling didn't say trans rights, but I sure as heck did.


End file.
